What Becomes of Snow?
by The-Ugly-Turtleduckling
Summary: Garfield Logan, abandoned by the last of his family, has a new foster home in the cold, snowy Colorado Mountain Range. His new foster mother is a tad...eccentric, but the woman has a surprise waiting for him when he gets to his new house...
1. Prologue

Hello everyone! This is my first AU story, and only my second actual story written. I got the idea for this story after reading the first fifty pages of _Raven's Gate_ and noticing a striking similarity between the main character, Matt, and Beast Boy, especially past-wise. The more I read the book now, the more they seem to familiarize with one another. (And by the way, no, I am not stealing from that book, the only thing that is the same is that both Matt and Gar have been disowned by an aunt and are going to a new foster home, the first non-relative one)

Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Titans, DC comics, or the book Raven's Gate, by Anthony Horowitz! Neither do I own Fruits Basket, or any of Natsuki Takaya's works. I got the title from her manga, Fruits Basket, and also a few of my ideas and analogies. I do not own them. If any of those were mine, do you think I would be wasting my time here while I could be stopping the cancellation of that awesome show mentioned above!

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What Becomes of Snow?

Chapter 1: **Prologue**

Garfield Logan leaned his head back on the cushy tan fabric of the plane seat and sighed. Yet again he was off to a foster home, this time in a small, rural town called 'Little Brook'. It was hidden somewhere in the depths of Colorado, nestled in the middle of the Rockies. It snowed so much there that, amazingly, snow days were nonexistent. Everyone owned a snowmobile, and simply skimmed over the top of up to ten feet of the white fluffy stuff to get where they needed to go.

Gar wasn't used to cold weather, though, having grown up in various homes in California. Sadly, he had recently run out of relatives willing to house him after his last aunt got sick of his presence. His greasy social worker had taken a mere three weeks to dredge up a family that wanted a foster child around his age. That was lucky, considering that not many wanted to handle a sulky 16-year-old boy, and an expensive vegan one at that.

Apparently, the woman who was going to foster him was a single parent, but had inherited quite a sum of money from her great-uncle when he had passed on. Gar didn't know anything about the guardian's child, though, because he had only spoken to his foster parent on the phone for a few minutes. The first thing he had asked was why she would be interested in him, but she had only laughed and said that she had always wanted to help out the cause of orphans. He had cringed at the term because, for most of his life, that word had been like a punch to his stomach. He hated being reminded of what he was. A seemingly bitter, poor orphan destined to be either pitied or ridiculed by the masses. He was _not_ going to become that. Ever.

The woman, who insisted upon being called Angela, hadn't noticed his pause and had continued chatting about how she now had a decent home big enough to house five or more people comfortably. As soon as she had gained her fortune (her dowry from a dying great-aunt somewhere in England), she had begun to scour all databases for a child who normally wouldn't have been picked by someone wanting a sweet, innocent, and unmarred little kid, as most foster parents did. She wanted someone older and with a reputation for being angsty because she wanted to 'save' him or her from the endless torment of living in an orphanage. Without realizing it again, Angela had found another insecurity of Gar's.

Apparently this woman had a knack for unintentionally finding the one tender spot on a person and picking and picking at it without even noticing. It was a rare talent, but a few unfortunate souls inherited it from somewhere and had notorious records of social issues. Most of these people were found on daily talk shows, complaining about how they have no friends, haven't had a date since the fourth grade, and have problems gaining a job because all of the bosses in the world were 'out to get them'. Of course, this woman seemed to have a good heart, and meant well, but no matter how unintentional the little mental stabs were, they hurt all the same. Immediately Gar had sent up a mental note to steer clear of his new foster parent when she was in a chatty mood.

Pulling himself out of reminiscings, Gar stared out at the open landscape below. Everything he had once known, from the maze-like streets of Los Angeles and San Diego to the inner workings of supermarkets and busy beaches had blurred away to prim, perfect squares of green and tan.Occasionally the sun would catch a faraway building just right and spark a bright gleam of silver in its respective place, but otherwise all there was to see was bleak, open landscape. Large, fluffy clouds floated by in sparse clusters every now and then, below, above, or on level with the plane. In the rare case that one collided with it, a soft sound was heard as the water droplets misted the smooth metallic sides. Gar admitted it was pretty beautiful and serene, looking everywhere and not seeing more than a glint of human workings, but the unfamiliarity of it all sent a glimmer of helplessness inside of him. For the first time he realized he was at the mercy of the plane and the wind, and that all that could bring him to his death would be what felt like a small draft of air to the people below.

A wave of nausea gripped him, and he clutched his stomach, grimacing. Noticing a small plastic ring on the top of the window, Gar pulled on it. Down it came with ease, and with it a thin layer of tan polyurethane foam that served as a windowshade. Sighing in relief, he fitted the ring onto a small hook at the bottom of the window and leaned back. On his righthand side, below the window, was a control panel riddled with buttons. One showed the crude image of a girl in a short dress, carrying a tray, and he guessed that it was the flight attendant call button.

The vertigo-sickened boy pressed it, and a low-frequency buzz sounded in his ears. Almost immediately the sandy tan curtains at the back end of the plane flipped open, revealing a teenage girl about his age in a short--you guessed it--tan, dress. A spotless white apron covered the front of the outfit, reaching around the back of her neck and tying about her waist. The girl's hair was long and curly, and flowed over her shoulders in soft dark blonde waves. Sepia oval-shaped glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, hiding flashy emerald eyes, and bags of peanuts stuck bulkily out of her apron pockets. Stepping down the aisle in awkward heels, she glanced up at the ceiling. The small lightbulb next to Row 14, where Gar resided, was flashing, signaling to her that it was he who had pushed the button. Pulling down the edge of the too-short dress uncomfortably, she stopped at his row and looked at him.

"Can I help you, sir?" she asked, still uncomfortable with her outfit. She never had been a revealing girl, but she had needed a job and her cousin worked as a security guard at the airport. With some good family connections, she had been hired as an assistant flight attendant for the summer, despite her age and lack of experience. It was directly in the job description that the uniform must be worn lest she be fired. Shifting in her place and almost stumbling, she flinched. She never had liked heels, either.

Gar looked at her and asked, "Can I have a glass of water?"

Glancing behind him at the closed polyurethane curtain, the girl grinned. "Sure. First flight?" she asked, gesturing to the window.

"Yeah! How did you know?" Gar asked suspiciously.

"The curtain is down. I had the same problem the first time I flew, I felt like throwing up every time I looked out. Ended up just closing the curtain, like you did, and drinking some soda. Nothing much but gum helped the ear pressure, though. Still bothers me today." the girl hesitated, rubbing her ears absently, then smiled a thin, apologetic smile that made the corners of her eyes crinkle up. "Forgive me, everyone says I talk too much. I guess being a silent little mouse of a girl during my first fifteen years of life would have backfired on me somehow, in the end. I should get your water before you hurl. You're turning green, you know." she smirked.

With a wink, she was gone, off to save the day, or, rather, his lunch.

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Hajimemashite and konnichiwa! (Gomenasai, Takaya-san! I used your saying!) Hello and welcome to my second fic, everyone! I started this a while back, but never really decided to send it in-I was afraid I'd get too bogged down with two stories going! But...I guess I will, partly as a personal 'gomenasai' to all of my readers who waited so patiently on my first story, Quality Time, while I sat on my lazy butt for about 3 months. This story is a BB/Rae story, and the twist should come in during the next chapter. Some of you smarties may have already figured it out, though...I gave waay too many hints. This was basically the prologue to start it, kinda to set the foundations and...hehe...add in a cameo character. Y'know, the insane flight attendant? If you can guess who she is, you get cyber-cookies! (grins) Though it may be a little hard, because she isn't famous...or anyone you know...I don't think...O;o... Anyway! Until we meet again, my awesome reviewers, seyonara! 


	2. Home Sweet Home?

Hi! I'm back with the second installment of _What Becomes of Snow?_. Really sorry it took so long, but I've been busy as heck and I have 3 stories going...2 on here, and a novel I'm trying to get back on track with. So--kill me if you like, but I don't think that's gonna help me update faster...really. (sweatdrops) I guess all you can do is try and be patient with me. SO! Without further ado...ta da! Chapter numero dos!

Disclaimer: Do I really need to say this? NO, I DO NOT OWN TEEN TITANS OR ANY OTHER COPYWRIGHTED WORKS THAT MAY SEEM TO BE AFFILIATED WITH THIS STORY. (ahem) Well, anyway, on with said story.

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**Chapter 2: Home Sweet Home?**

Gar stepped out from the shabby cab into the muted sunlight, passing the expectant driver a 20 and grabbing his suitcase before he closed the door. The taxi sped off through the snow promptly, wheels making a thick, skidding crunch against the cold white material. Hefting his bag over one shoulder, Gar watched the small yellow car disappear in the distance, speeding through the long, lonely tunnel the thick forest made around the rural road. He turned, drawing in a sharp breath at the sight of a stately manor in front of him, far up a valley between the mountains, and the huge, forbidding gate that stood between him and 'home'. A tall brick wall enclosed the mansion grounds, and appeared, from what he could see through the iron bars of the gate, to extend all the way around the valley. Gar whistled admiringly. Who had 'Angela's' dearly departed relative been, the Queen of England?

Shaking his head in awe, he stepped hesitantly up to the front gate. Wrapping frigid fingers around the bars, he shook the metal vigorously, and a crackling rattle filled the air, echoing around the mountainsides. Yup, it was locked. A speaker wired to the top of the bars made its presence known when a tinny, irritated voice emanated from it, making him jump.

"There _is_ a call box, sir." the speaker sniffed. "It's by the lock. Next time, think before you disrupt the mistress, please."

Gar stared in amazement as the _box_ talked down to him. Grinning, he decided to mess with the man who was apparently master of the security system.

"Yes _sir_," he replied in a snooty monotone, not unlike the speaker-man's. "I happen to be Miss Angela's lawyer, visiting on the terms of her inheritance money? I-I'm afraid the will did not mention Miss _Angela_ at all, but a Miss Angelique--a long-lost cousin of the relative's. All the land is revoked and now belongs to Miss Ange-" the boy was cut off when the speaker again...spoke.

"Sir Garfield, you cannot fool me. Miss Angela relayed to me your approximate time of arrival, and besides, I _do_ have a camera. **Sir**." the old man added complacently. A tubular security camera, mounted on the topmost bar of the gate, swiveled in his direction as if to prove the sarcastic old geezer correct. Gar scowled and stuck his tongue out, angry that the man had ruined his fun. Still, he couldn't help but feel a little respect for the man--he _had_ bested him, the **king** of pranks, after all.

"Now, _sir_, that you've proved your point, could you please let me in? I'm freezing my butt off out here," Gar whined, shivering and rubbing his skinny arms to show the guy **just** how much he was suffering.

"Right away, sir," the speaker snapped, and the gates opened quickly and silently. "I will send a snowmobile down for you in a moment."

Gar beamed. A snowmobile ride!!! The man hadn't been lying, and soon the teenager could see a silver shape skidding down the snowy slopes. It slid to a stop in front of him, spraying a sparkling wave of snow over his head. It didn't feel quite as pretty as it looked, however. Spitting out slush and slapping the wet, cold mush off of him, he glared pointedly at the snowmobile driver. The guy shrugged and his helmet bobbed in Gar's direction, then towards the back of the seat. Gar got the point. Throwing his suitcase into the basket at the back, he plopped into the seat behind the strangely small, skinny guy and loosely linked his arms around the dude's black parka-clad stomach. Hey, he didn't want to fall off, but he didn't want to look...you know...either.

When the craft took off, the excited orphan jerked backwards, nearly falling off of the seat. Actually, he would have had it not been for his grasp on the driver, which became noticably tighter after takeoff. The snowmobilist laughed--a thin, scornful sound--and pushed down the throttle, taking Garfield on a wild, bumpy ride over snowdrifts and through icy trees, heading in a willy-nilly zigzagging pattern towards the manor's gilded front doors.

Upon finally reaching the stairway leading up to said doors, Gar was frozen, his 'loose grip' on the driver's stomach more like a drowning man's grip on a safety line. Shakily detaching his numb arms from around the guy's belly and hoping he didn't get sued for that level of physical contact, Gar let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. The escaping air revealed itself as a frosty white cloud in front of his face, and he watched it for a bit before turning and heaving his miraculously still present suitcase out from the basket. If he thought it was going to continue to be helpful, though, he would have been sadly mistaken. The weight of the bag, added to his half-frozen state and dazed demeanor, completely freaked out his equilibrium. The poor, confused boy fell face first into a large hill of powder, and, after a moment of struggle, decided to relax and lie there a while. It wasn't..._that _cold, and he was exhausted. Besides...he couldn't move his legs.

Within what seemed like five short seconds, he felt a hand grip his arm with a cold and machinated assuredness. He was promptly hauled out of the drift, and the snowmobile driver grabbed Gar's suitcase effortlessly from it. The guy took off towards the steps, and Gar silently scurried after him, blinking blearily and rubbing his hands together for warmth.

Inside the manor, Gar was greeted by a smooth, gray marble floor and high cathedral ceiling. An intricate Renaissance-style painting in warm reds and yellows adorned the circular walls and a glittering crystal chandelier hung at least twenty feet down from the arched ceiling, but was still at least twenty from the floor. This so amazed the boy that he didn't even notice when the black-clad driver dropped his suitcase to the floor with a muffled thump, or when the tall, thin woman in a lavender house robe swished into the room.

"Garfield!!! Honey, you're here!" the pretty hostess--undoubtedly Angela--crooned. At this he looked down, finally noticing something _other_ than the ceiling. Angela's long black hair swayed gently from side to side as she walked along in soft-looking fuzzy slippers and grabbed the slushy teenager up into a bear hug.

"Oh, I just _couldn't_ wait for you to get here! I had Jonesy at that camera screen all day, to make sure I knew when you came, and you were right on time! You did tip the cab driver, right? OH! Yes, dear, this is Jonesy!" Her mouth moved a mile a minute, making Gar's head spin, and when she released him and spun him around, he was face-to-face with a pompous, oily-looking old man in a black suit. Ah. So..._this_ was Jonesy. This was the speaker-guy. His frozen head took a moment to piece this all together, but by the time he was finished, Angela was talking again.

"Darling, we're all _so_ glad you could make it. By the way," she spun him around again, this time until he was facing the snowmobile guy. "This is my baby, Rae." Angela beamed. Gar was confused for a moment, but then extended his hand in greeting.

"Hi. I'm Garfield, but you can call me Gar." he grinned. The still-silent driver looked him over, then seemed to come to a decision. Pulling off his helmet, he shook out a head of shoulder-length black hair. Wait..._what?_

The snowmobile driver gave him a small, tight-lipped smile, and he saw **her** face for the first time. She was thin like her mother, with a heart-shaped facial stucture and a widow's peak that sent her hair into a jaunty 'M' shape and cast deep shadows across her face. What was most impressive, though, was her _eyes._ They stood out brilliantly from the shadows her hair made, shining a light, cold blue-gray--like snow. This was really the only feature he couldn't see a resemblance to Angela in. Finally she spoke, in short, clipped tones, and she sounded as cold and sarcastic as she looked.

"Hello, **Garfield** I'm Rachel. And _don't_ call me Rae."

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Well...yeah. So ends the 2nd chapter, and...the twist was revealed!!! Rachel is his new foster sister! Where will this lead? Please review, and find out in Chapter 3!!! Ciao, y'all! 


	3. With Friends Like These

Hey, everyone! I'm so sorry it took so long to get this up, but I had problems just getting up a new chapter for my main story, so...bear with me, please. I forgot to mention last time, but the cameo character in the first chapter was none other than me. Well...I just felt like doing that. There was absolutely no meaning to it. Sorry for all of those who were confused and/or irritated by it. (Oh, and I'm sorry for the little grammatical mistake in the last quote last chapter. I forgot a comma. It was supposed to say "Hello **Garfield,** I'm Rachel. And _don't _call me Rae." Whoopsies!) Um...well, here's the third chapter of What Becomes of Snow?, and...please enjoy! By the way, I will be integrating random lyrics, quotes, etc. before chapters just because it's fun. Whoohoo!

Disclaimer: I don't own Teen Titans. I'm sorry, I don't. So now I'll just turn emo and start cleaning out the stores' supplies of mascara and red paint. (sniffle) Rawr.

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**Chapter 3: With Friends Like These...**

_Lost in a simple game, cat and mouse, are we the same_

_People as before this came to light?_

_Am I supposed to be happy?_

_With all I ever wanted, it comes with a price_

_Am I supposed to be happy?_

_When all I ever wanted, it comes with a price_

_You said, you said that you would die for me..._

**_--Cat and Mouse (The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus)_**

Struck speechless with embarrassment and discomfort, Garfield stood and gazed at his toes as he continued to drip rapidly melting snow onto the smooth marble floor. Rachel managed to look at him with both detached disinterest and hatred at the same time, raising her eyebrows slightly as she set her mouth into a taut, firm line and balanced the discarded helmet against her hip. Angela glanced nervously between the two, her ruby-lipped smile faltering slightly as she felt the tension in the air. She seemed to come to a decision, and stepped forward, placing one hand on each of the teens' shoulders. The woman recoiled slightly from the puddle that was growing around Gar's feet, and spoke.

"Eh...Rae, darling, why don't you show Gar up to his room? Help him carry his luggage, and show him to the restroom so he can clean himself up and change into something dry. Won't you, dear?" she asked timidly, urging the girl to comply with her wide brown eyes.

Rachel shrugged and promptly turned around, hanging her helmet on a hook on the wall and snatching up Gar's bag. As she passed him, she stared blankly in his general direction and blinked, indicating that he was to follow. The boy trailed behind her up the left side of a large, curving double staircase that took up most of the room, footsteps echoing dully against the hard, bare walls of the entrance parlor. Despite the warm colors that adorned the walls and the beautiful, striking masterpiece that constituted the ceiling, there was something here that made him feel cold, all the way down to the core of his being. It wasn't so much a physical chilliness as a feeling, a feeling of false welcome and masked ugliness. Everything here felt _forced_, as if behind the glorious facade of wealth and splendor was something so terrible, so vile and despicable that it would eat you apart if you so much as touched it. Whatever _it_ was, he could tell that it was also lonely. A vast emptiness that reeked of human suffering permeated the entire premises, and it was suffocating in its intensity. Gar felt it with every inch of his soul, and he knew instinctively that his experience here was going to be anything but pleasant as long as this feeling persisted.

At the top of the rosy gray marble staircase, Rachel made a left down a short hallway, and he followed in meek obeisance. She turned to the right again at the end, and they traveled past two doors before stopping at the third. He made a mental note of its location for future reference. This was a _big_ house, and he didn't want to get lost. Thankfully he was only three doors down the hall, and not at some wierd, random number like 11 or 23. He could think of the popular rock band to remember where his room was. It seemed to be a long enough hallway to accomodate such extreme digits, though. The smooth, velvety black carpet went on for about an acre, probably the entire width of the house, with doors and subhallways all down its length. More works of art adorned the walls, from wacky Picassos to the beautifully detailed paintings characteristic of Michelangelo's brush. Gar wondered faintly if they were authentic.

Setting the teenager's suitcase on the floor, Rachel began to fumble in the breast of her parka for something. She pulled out a small gold key suspended on a silver chain around her neck and bent over to insert it in the doorknob. A click sounded, and the dark-wooded door swung silently inward. The interior of the room revealed itself to consist of a deep, dark blackness that swallowed the light from the hallway in huge, ravenous gulps and refused to retreat an inch into the space. It ran in terror and hid underneath the furniture in the room, however, when the taciturn girl flipped on a light switch next to the carved hardwood doorframe. Splashes of ivy and holly sprigs danced in dark chocolate sworls around the edge of the doorspace, with a matching light switch panel that contrasted attractively with the pale mint walls and light cream carpeting. She grabbed up his bag and strode in, he following at a distance.

Gar sucked in a deep breath as his eyes devoured the bedroom, flicking erratically from the centerpiece that sat in the middle of the right side of the room--a four-poster king-sized bed complete with lavender-and-jade colored sheets, a multitude of white, emerald, and pale violet pillows, and a gauzy canopy of the same gentle amethyst shade--to the huge wardrobe made in the same style as the doorframe to the plush chocolate loveseat that cuddled invitingly in the back left corner with a pillow on either end--one purple and the other green. All wood in the room was of the same dark brown, nearly black shade that Garfield now recognized to be black walnut, inscribed and detailed with trailing lines of holly and ivy in exquisitely crafted relief. Each leg on the bed was supported by a large, thick, curved leaf in lieu of the popular lion's paw, and the stem traveled in loops and curves up the post and constituted the base of the holly and ivy sprigs. The legs on the wardrobe, loveseat, dresser, and bedside table were made to match perfectly.

A huge oval mirror hung over the low-lying dresser on the left side of the room, metal edge molded in the same fashion as the doorframe. The wardrobe that hid behind the bed in the back right corner had humongous curved handles that mimicked long, thin fern leaves, and a desk lamp made of the familiar engraved wood squatted amiably on the bedside table, guarding a small drawer that was set a bit below the circular tabletop. Its shade was of a soft, transclucent mossy hue with miniature strings of holly and ivy sewn down from the top to the bottom in regular lilac stripes, hanging a few inches off the end to form tassels.

A few paintings hung at random intervals on the walls, mostly nature scenes with little forest animals gazing solemnly out at you from behind oak trees, but one strange piece captured his attention. It was centered directly across from the bed, and it was a painting of a woman with delicate, pale skin that glowed with a hint of soft green and long, curly emerald hair that tumbled smoothly over her bare shoulders, covering most of the right side of her face. It reminded him of grass or seaweed, and even the texture of it looked thick and plantlike. Beads of water sparkled throughout the unkempt mane, and the beautiful lady's large jade eyes gazed serenely out at him from behind long, dark lashes. Thinly shaped eyebrows rested calmly above them, slightly raised in what looked to be silent appreciation. Her small mouth was twisted into the beginnings of a gentle smile, and the dark, swirling milieu behind her seemed to be the misty edge of a forest upon closer inspection. The boy felt a strange sense of peace looking at the painting, and he wished he could gaze upon it forever. The woman looked kind of familiar, and he had this odd notion that he had seen her before, somewhere. He was jilted into the present, however, when Rachel broke the silence by, finally, speaking as she dropped his bag again to the floor.

"Put your things anywhere you like. Angela will take you to the store soon to stock up on clothes and such, so don't worry about your meager supplies. Heaven knows you'll be having trouble jamming all your clothing into the drawers by the time she's through with you. The bathroom is over there," she pointed a long finger towards a door that stood to the left of the wardrobe, "if you need to wash up, and make sure to change into something decent. Dinner is at seven." Her sentences were hard, clipped, and blunt, and she turned around and slipped out of the room just as he began to turn around.

"Th-This is _my_ room?" he stuttered, pointing at his chest. She was gone, though, and a thought occurred to him. "H-hey! Where's the kitchen? Where's a clock? Rachel? _Rachel!?!_"

The teenager ran to the door, flipping his head frantically from one end of the hall to the other, but the girl was nowhere to be seen. Shaking his head in confusion, he sighed and returned to his room so he could begin to unpack. His new foster sister was a strange one, that was to be sure.

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Gar stared uncomfortably at himself in the mirror as he straightened his tie. It was made of smooth silk with black and blue stripes racing diagonally down it. Underneath a formal black jacket that had buttons at his wrists, he wore a cobalt dress shirt tucked into a pair of black slacks that were secured with a black leather belt. Hidden by the pants were navy socks that stretched up to his knees, and glistening black hightops fitted his feet snugly. The only reason he even _had_ clothes like this was, well, simply because the outfit had been hanging up on a hook in his bathroom, waiting for him when he walked in. The boy had decided it must have been his change of clothes for dinner. He had been afraid at first to touch anything in the room, for it seemed so clean and perfect that it would shatter should he touch it, and he would wake up on the cold little cot in his aunt's spare room. 

It also looked _expensive_. Even the bathroom, when he had walked in earlier, was of the same design as his bedroom. All along the right wall of it was a smooth waist-high countertop of mossy gray marble, with a clear mirror covering every inch of wall above. A multitude of black walnut drawers and cabinets supported the countertop against the floor. A large porcelain sink dipped into a smooth bowl in the center of the counter, with shining silver handles molded in the guise of leaves and a swan's neck spicket arcing over the gleaming white basin. A mint-colored bar of Ivory Springs soap lay inside a barely distinguishable dip in the porcelain. Directly across from the door, a square of wall jutted out from the main line, with a thin door along the front of it that led to a small towel closet. Emerald and plum towels and washcloths were stacked neatly on a shelf inside.

Just to the left of and perpendicular to the entrance to the bathroom was another thin door, with a white porcelain toilet beyond, a silver toilet paper rack bolted to the right wall (even it was leafy and elegant), and a black walnut cabinet above with a few shelves that carried necessities--toothbrush, toothpaste, floss, toilet paper, extra soap, deodorant, shampoo, etc. All walls in the bathroom were the same color as those in the bedroom, and the floor was cream tile with moss and lavender criss-crossing lines that separated the individual tiles. Stretched diagonally between the edge of one thin door to the other was a beautiful shower curtain that looked much the same as the lampshade in his room, sans the tassels. Behind it was a humongous oval bowl of a tub "big enough for ten plus me." It was so deep that the side of the porcelain basin had a step on it (complete with sticky rubber grip to avoid falling on your butt) so one could step in!

All surfaces were covered in the same stubbly rubber grip material so that shampoo bottles and feet could get a firm hold on the slippery material. A thick, hard plastic wall guard extended smoothly from the edges of the tub up to the ceiling on all three sides, blending perfectly with the porcelain tub. Five deep shelves were built into the back wall guard to hold soap bars and such. A silver shower head jutted out from the left side, and the spray was hard and warm. He knew that from experience, having taken a shower soon after unpacking. You could even change the way the water flowed by turning a dial on the tip of the head. It did anything from misting, oscillating, giving out short, massaging bursts of water, and pouring forth a continuous spray. A matching water spicket and pull-pin to switch from bath mode to shower mode extended from the plastic directly above the edge of the porcelain tub beneath the shower head.

It was all as intricate and beautiful as the furniture in his bedroom, and Gar couldn't believe that all of this was, at least temporarily, _his_. It was a little too good to be true, but he didn't forget the strange sense of foreboding that trailed him from room to room. That was a certain downer in the wonder and crystalline splendor of the house. As he stared at himself in the mirror, a tiny shiver ran down his spine. He could see his bed behind him, under which he had shoved his empty suitcase, and something was wrong. Where the sheets had formerly been crisp and smooth they were wrinkled and dented in the impression of a body, as if someone had lain there for a few minutes before getting up and vacating the premises. He knew for a fact that it wasn't _his _body print, because he hadn't touched a finger to the bed. The boy was too afraid to mess it up, for it looked like someone had taken great pains to make it perfectly.

His heart pounding in his chest, Gar spun around and clomped awkwardly over to his bedside. He cautiously slid a hand across the cool, silky sheets, poking his fingers into the phantom indentations. Without conscious thought, his hand jerked back when the material felt warm beneath his fingertips. Gulping, he stumbled back and suddenly caught the gentle scent of lilies in the air. Goosebumps popped up on his arms even under the hot, stiff jacket as he looked around wildly, and the boy turned and ran out of the room, not bothering to close the door as he sprinted for the hallway. He turned left, then left again at the corner and didn't stop until he reached the head of the staircase. There, he grasped the railing as he caught his breath. Adrenaline caused his legs to tremble and his heart to pound as if he had just run the 100-meter dash, but he still spun around with the kind of vitality known only to terrified youngsters when he heard footsteps tapping the floor behind him.

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Welly welly well then, that's my third chapter for _What Becomes of Snow?_, and I do hope you enjoyed it! I'm sorry about the cliffhanger, but the chapter was getting a little lengthy and I didn't want to use up all my ideas in one fell swoop. Stay tuned for chapter 4, guys, and remember to please review! It means the world to me!

Until next time,

Tsuki


	4. The Many Forms of Etiquette

Hi, guys! Thanks for coming back, and welcome to chapter 4 of _What Becomes of Snow?_!!! Without much further ado, I'll let you read on. (Read on, fanfic lovers, read on!)

Disclaimer: I've got a lovely bunch of coconuts... (deedle-lee-dee-dee) There they are a-standing in a row...Big ones, small ones, some as big as your head! No, but I doon't, own Teen Titaans...

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**Chapter 4: The Many Forms of Etiquette**

_I linger in the doorway_

_Of alarm clocks screaming monsters calling my name_

_Let me stay where the wind will whisper to me_

_Where the raindrops, as they're falling, tell a story_

**_--Imaginary (Evanescence)_**

Gar whirled around, elevated heart rate beating a staccato against his chest, only to find Jonesy staring condescendingly down his long, thin nose at him.

"Mr. Logan, I came to fetch you for dinner, though if you would prefer to run around in terror, I am not instructed to cut short your recreational activities..." He trailed off, one bushy eyebrow arching along with the corner of his mouth in silent, mocking amusement.

Gar scowled at the old man's impudence. Remembering _why_ he had been sprinting through the halls in a state of panic, though, he dove forward and grabbed Jonesy by his starched shirt collar, jerking him up and leaning into his face.

"**_There's someone in my room!_**" He whimpered, shaking the pallid butler roughly. The old man stepped back, frowning slightly in irritation and obviously debating over the boy's sanity.

"Mr. Logan...I assure you there is not an intruder in this house. In fact--"

"NO! It...it's not a person! It's a _ghost_ or something! I swear! I mean, I was there, and it wasn't, and then I looked back and there it was, so I knew...I knew that...it's a ghost!" Gar babbled, bobbing up and down in frustration and gripping Jonesy by the upper arm.

The cynical staff member pried the teenager's fingers from his tux sleeve, furrowing his brows in concern. Clearly this boy was in need of rest.

"Mr. Logan, it has been a long day. Perhaps a bit of dinner will clear your head? I know for a fact that the change in elevation can have an adverse effect on one's mind before one acclimates to it. After a good night's rest, I'm sure you will be feeling much better, and will suffer from no more hallucinations or lapses in memory. Please follow me," he said softly but curtly, sweeping an impatient white-gloved hand towards the still-terrified youngster and beginning to descend the steps.

Numbly, Gar followed, making his wobbly way down the stairwell. He did a 180 at the bottom and gaped in awe at a long hallway lined with Victorian tapestries and stunning suits of armor. He should have been used to the grandeur of the house by now, but unfortunately the shock hadn't quite worn off yet. At the end of the hall was a grand set of double doors of pure, rich rosewood, patterned with fine carvings of shining knights and graceful dragons--obviously created by the same hand as that of the furniture in his bedroom by the looks of the powerful, strong strokes and verging-on-obsessive attention to detail. At the end of the hall, Jonesy stopped at the doors. He did an about face and bowed to Gar out of pure butler etiquette, a towel appearing on his arm. He straightened, turning slightly away and inclining his head towards the door, leaning downwards and extending a gracious hand to the knob before pushing it open and walking quickly to the side in order to allow Gar to absorb the entire room.

And what a room it was! Huge, elegant, and adorned in soft, rich maroon velvet, the dining room extended out in a massive square before him. Its warm and hospitable feel was accentuated by a fireplace that blazed at the far end of the room. A long table set with fine silver dishware and covered by a tasseled velvet skirt that stretched comfortably along its length squatted between the door Gar was cowering in and the fire like a dragon protecting its hoard, sitting perpendicular to the boy so that its ends reached at least halfway to the left and right faces of the room. The floor was covered by a square rug of intricately patterned red and black that laid over most of the ground area, shrinking back about ten feet from the wall on every side and allowing a strip of pearly white linoleum to shine through from underneath. Of course, beautiful works of art were placed tastefully throughout, standing out in stark contrast to the deep violet walls.

Both Angela and Rachel rose respectfully from their seats at the table when he entered, and he wasn't surprised to find that they also dined in formal wear. His foster mother was bedecked in a dazzling ruby-red tube top gown that flowed out in lacy layers at her knees. The whole thing was embroidered with wildly glittering sequins, and the boy couldn't help but think she resembled an upside-down rose after a thunderstorm, all delicate and refreshed and glistening with raindrops. A multitude of little rubies hung in white gold nets from her ears, reaching nearly to her bare shoulders in their weight and intricacy, while her hair had shifted into a curly up-do with a few dark tendrils hanging loosely around her face.

Rachel, befittingly, was dressed in much less gaudy attire. A simple black silk dress covered her down to the ankle, ending in a barely noticeable wavy fringe of lace. It had no sleeves, but rather reached up in a loop around her neck. The back of it began at the bottom tips of her shoulder blades, more modest than most of the same style, and simple ebony drops accented her earlobes. Regardless, it was a stunning outfit, and her hair remained down, brushing gently at her pale shoulders. He felt intimidated by the presence of these two stately women, and dropped his eyes to shuffle across the room towards them.

"Oh, Gar, you look _lovely_, dear!" Angela gushed, clasping her hands next to her cheek and beckoning wildly with an elegant hand. "Come, come, sit down, _here_, by me! I want to have a nice talk with you! I want to know _everything _about my new son!" Her demeanor greatly reduced the awe-inspiring grace of her presence, and the teenager relaxed a bit.

He obediently followed her directions, a bit overwhelmed again by her enthusiasm, and was soon seated in a plush chair some three seats down from the head of the table, back facing the door he had entered. She sat across from him, hands laced together under her chin as she sat forward excitedly and rapid-fired queries at him, while Rachel sat several seats to his right on the same side as her mother. He did his best to answer the questions truthfully, but soon grew tired of being interrogated. Questions such as "What is your favorite meal?" (vegan pizza) and "Where do you stand on the whole 'plaid vs. khaki' debate?" (khaki) were fairly straightforward and simple, requiring little by way of thought or concentration, while queries like "Do you miss your old homes?" and "Have you ever wondered about your real parents?" made him uncomfortable and forced him to take advantage of loopholes in the wording itself in order to avoid lengthy answers and escape through the general "Yes" and "No". Answers such as this did seem to frustrate her, as evident by the way her hands kept clenching together, along with her teeth and most of her face.

Fortunately, before his brain began to hurt from all the thinking required to shoot carefully worded answers rapid-fire back at her, the soup arrived. Gar looked anxiously at the little bowl of orange broth, furrowing his brows in disdain as some circular things (onions, perhaps?) bobbed briefly to the surface before escaping back below the waterline. He then reached to his left for a spoon, shocked to find three different-sized utensils of that description at his disposal. He snuck a glance to the right at Angela, who seemed to have picked up the mid-sized one with the leafy handle and was daintily spooning small sips into her mouth. He copied her hurriedly, slurping up large spoonfuls in his haste to catch up. He could already smell the next course coming. He looked up from his frantic slurping, however, when Rachel "ahem"ed at him from her end of the table and gave him quite a rude look. He glowered right back before realizing that he had gathered the unhappy attentions of Angela as well. Glancing down, he realized he had downed about three quarters of his soup already and somehow managed to slop about half of it on the lovely cream napkin with the gilded edges that sat primly beneath the little silver bowl.

"Sorry," he whispered to both of them after setting his spoon down in the bowl as they had and dabbing his mouth with the soiled napkin. "Not used to fancy dining, if you catch my drift." He shrugged helplessly. What else could he do? He was only a 16-year-old boy, in a new house with new people who seemed to assume he knew what was expected of you in the art of fine dining. Angela smiled at him gently, but Rachel scowled and turned away, fixing her attention on a tapestry that depicted two battling lions. One was ensnared in a tangle of ivy, while the other had fire licking at its heels.

"It's alright, Garfield," Angela soothed, placing a hand on his forearm. "We shouldn't have expected you to know, anyway. Old habits die hard, right? Just copy me, and you'll be fine. I'll get someone to teach you dining etiquette tomorrow." She smiled again, softly, and returned to her own dish, straightening the spoon in the bowl so that it settled in the 3:00-9:00 position. He did the same, and she giggled softly. "A regular game of Copycat, eh?"

He nodded, grinning, but his mind was elsewhere. That mysterious warm impression on his bed was still creeping him out. He knew he hadn't imagined it, and he was positive that he had not put a finger on that downy comforter. Was it possible that someone had come in, as a joke? No...he most certainly would have noticed any movement in the room. It was impossible, but...somehow it had happened. Could this big old house be haunted? A chill ran down his spine at this random thought, and he shook his head furiously. That couldn't be right. His stupid, childish mind was running away with him again. But still...put together all the criteria for a haunted house, and what do you get? A dictionary description of this mansion he was sitting in.

Before he knew it, the main course had arrived before him, carried again on a silver plate in the arms of an elusive butler. He caught but a glimpse of the man's arm--thin and pale--before he was gone again, whooshing around in a black-clad blur to deliver Rachel's meal and disappearing through the kitchen door as quickly as he had appeared. Gar looked down at the steaming food below him, sniffed, and was relieved to find it was a veggie burger that sat innocently on his plate amidst mixed vegetables and a dollop of mashed potatoes, not a beef patty.

He started to dig in, but remembered his manners before getting too far. Glancing surreptitiously over at Angela, he noted that she had her burger in her hands and was eating it quite normally. When she noticed he was watching her, she set it down gently, dabbed at her mouth with her napkin, and selected the fork on the far left to spear a few vegetables and lift them to her lips. The largest spoon was used to scoop up a small bite of mashed potatoes. Greatly relieved, Gar went back to his own meal. Despite its simplicity, it was delicious, and he was starving. Thankfully very little conversation was exchanged at the table during that time, for everyone seemed quite hungry.

Dessert was a delicious slice of key lime pie, with a wonderfully crumbly graham cracker crust and a few strips of lime rind curled attractively on top. It disappeared quite quickly, even with his use of the small dessert fork that Angela ate hers with. There was, unfortunately, a conversational gleam in his foster mother's eye as she finished her last bite and noticed that he was done as well.

"So! Gar, what do you think of the house so far?" she piped, beaming like the sun. He squirmed under her gaze, but answered truthfully.

"It's...big. And interesting. And...cold?" he said haltingly. She nodded, understanding.

"All true. But do you like it?" she asked, knowing now how he exploited vaguely worded questions.

He nodded, but looked dubious.

"What?" she asked, leaning forward and furrowing her brows.

"Well...um, I know this sounds stupid, but is this house...maybe...haunted?" he squeaked. Hearing a splurt from down the table, he swung his head around in time to see Rachel, in the middle of taking a swig of tea, choke and splatter it all over herself. He laughed quietly, then turned to Angela, a grin on his face. What he saw stopped him cold, and his smile faded. She was sitting forward in her seat, jaw tight and eyes trained forward. He murmured her name worriedly, and she turned to him stiffly, woodenly.

"It was just a joke!" he laughed nervously. "Of course it couldn't possibly...I just...could it?" he whimpered helplessly.

A small, tight smile grew on her face as he spoke. Her eyes, however, seemed to stare past him, towards the wall.

"Rachel, are you alright?"

Okay, so she was ignoring him now. After getting affirmation from her embarrassed daughter, she flitted her gaze back to him.

"I hope you enjoyed your dinner, Garfield!" she burbled. "Don't worry about your plate, the servants will get it. I'm going to say good night now, because I am going up to my room and won't be down before bed. So, g'night!"

She patted him on the shoulder and stood, gliding from the room like a grand flower. Rachel followed, slipping through the door soon after her mother--a thin, dark shadow that doggedly tailed its solid counterpart. Gar was again left alone, and sighed frustratedly before rising from the table. He felt odd leaving his plate behind, so picked up his dishes and grabbed his foster family's as an afterthought. Trudging through the door that he had seen the waiter disappear through, which presumably led to the kitchens, he nearly ran into a small boy clad in black--the waiter who had brought their meals in. The kid stared blankly at him, obviously very confused and awed by the fact that 'one of the family' was doing a chore.

Gar smiled at him and continued through the short hallway before turning into the large space that most definitely was the kitchen. Every conceivable type of herb and spice sat in metal racks that hung above marble countertops. There were drawers, shelves, and cabinets abound across the entire space, while a large metal door at the back led to the walk-in freezer. An enormous refrigerator, several ovens, and numerous stovetops also accented the room. Several cooks and waiters looked up, surprised, at him from a lounge area to the right of the room that had chairs, couches, a flat-screen television, and a large coffee table, on which was piled a few huge stacks of magazines and several resting feet.

"Hello, everyone. Where should I put these?" he asked politely, glancing from face to shocked face. One of the men who was bedecked in a cook's apron pointed shakingly up to a long line of soapy, dish-filled sinks that were set into the counter behind the lounge area, taking up the back right corner of the room and quite a bit of both intersecting walls. Several cabinets were in the wall above the sinks to place the clean dishes in. The rest area was set a bit into the floor, so the staff's heads were only up to about his knees as he walked by to set the plates, cups, and silverware into the fullest sink.

He jumped when a door on the far right of the room, a little past the end of the sinks, slammed open to admit a rather large man in a fancy white chef's outfit--complete with muffin-like chef's hat and a silver nametag that said "Stone". He made quite an impression, and was likely the head chef. His fists, which he planted on his hips in an "I'm in charge" kind of way as he faced his lounging staff, were as big as hams, and every inch of his rich, chocolaty-brown face screamed "Try to mess with me, and then you'll understand why a waiter disappears every time we have a 'mystery meat' special!".

"Yo!" the head chef shouted in a loud bass voice, jumping back as he noticed Gar for the first time. His brisk demeanor wasn't gone for long, for he quickly collected himself from the surprise and stomped like a giant over towards the poor boy, face like a thundercloud.

All Gar could think of as the angry man advanced on him, the intruder, was one word: Shit.

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Yay! Another chapter has come and gone, and yet I am still introducing people! I expect this story to get pretty long, so if you can hang with me throughout its creation, I'll grant you cyber-cookies for patience!!! Thanks for attending chapter 4 of What Becomes of Snow?, and I hope to see you when I come back with another chapter! G'bye!!! 

Tsuki


	5. The Cook's Tale

Hey, I'm baaack!! Finally, another addition to What Becomes of Snow?, in which the story finally gets moving! After 4 chapters of introductions and random nonsense, we may finally be getting into the plot...provided I take up the initiative and write like the wind!

Disclaimer: I. Do. Not. Own. Teen. Titans. Or. Anything. Affiliated. With. A. Copyright. As. Of. Yet. Do. I. Make. Myself. Clear?

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**Chapter 5: The Cook's Tale**

_When you walk away_

_I count the steps that you take_

_Do you see how much I need you right now?_

_When you're gone_

_The pieces of my heart are missing you_

_When you're gone_

_The face I came to know is missing too_

_When you're gone_

_The words I need to hear to always get me through the day_

_And make it ok_

_I miss you_

**_--When You're Gone (Avril Lavigne)_**

That single word resounded in Gar's head, jouncing through his frozen cerebrum in time with the drumlike stomps of the advancing head cook._ Shit. Shit. Shit._

He could think of nothing but his unwritten will as the big man stopped in front of him, arms akimbo and eyebrows furrowed menacingly. The smaller, flightier cooks that lounged on the couches below stared up at them with a kind of morbid, scared interest; they oddly reminded Gar of a huddle of lionesses watching their leader confront a bachelor challenger. It wasn't a comforting feeling. When Stone opened his rather large mouth to speak, the boy had a fleeting impression that he was about to be pounced upon and torn apart by those flashing white teeth.

"Whatchu doin' in my kitchen, little man?" he bellowed, leaning down a bit to get in Gar's face. Said teenager squeaked and fumbled for words a bit before managing to wrap his mind around an intelligible answer.

"Just...returning the dishes from dinner, that's all!" he whimpered, wincing slightly when a meaty hand jerked up from Stone's hip. He relaxed when the palm found its way to Stone's broad brown forehead and was smoothed thoughtfully down his face. The sausage-sized fingers scratched absently at his stubble-free chin.

"How stupid do you think I am, boy?" Stone roared unexpectedly, causing Gar to jump. "You ain't one of my cooks, where's your apron, eh? You must be some poor thief or somethin' from town, sneaking in here for a free snack!"

"N-no, Mr. Stone, sir!" the poor, confused teenager cried, raising his open hands in front of him to ward off an attack and backing up a few steps. Stone looked ready to sieze him and run him through the meat grinder. "I just thought it'd be nice to clean up after myself, is all! I'm used to doing it every day at my other homes!"

The head cook looked murderous for a moment, then seemed to be confused by something the boy had said. His scowl was replaced by a puzzled frown, and he cocked his head gently.

"Wait. What's your name, kid?" he asked.

"Gar. Gar Logan," the scared boy said, wary of the man's sudden mood shift. He was even more surprised when Stone broke out in a grin--fierce and dangerous, a predator's smile--and threw his head back, laughing.

"Oooh, oh hohoho!" he chuckled, nodding and removing his hat so as to avoid it falling on the floor. "You're the new boy, the one Miss Angela is fostering!" Gar nodded in relieved agreement, offering a feeble smile of his own.

"Y-yeah..."

"Sorry, man--I wasn't expecting some pompous California kid to even think about what went into his dinner, let alone come back to the kitchens just to put his dishes in the sink! Figured the new kid'd eat and go to bed like everyone else around here. Thought you'd be taller, though," he rambled, eliciting a pout from Gar. "Seems you've got the pretty-boy Cali looks, however. Wavy blond hair, green eyes, tan skin, skinny as all get out--yup, you've got 'Hollywood' written all over ya!" He smiled his predator's smile again, making Gar shudder just a tad.

"Um, yeah...Uh, why'd you think I was a thief?" the teenager questioned, one eyebrow raising as he rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment. The subordinate cooks were still staring, though less fear showed in their faces and their attention was focused on him rather than Stone. Interest shone in every pore of their faces--this was the new boy, the young master!

The head cook's face fell. "Ah, well, we've had a bit of history of thievery in these kitchens. My cooking is so famous, urchins come from miles around to try and sneak but a morsel of the most delicious food in Colorado!" Some of the lesser cooks rolled their eyes at this, a few shifting back around in their seats and returning to their magazines, sure now that the excitement was over.

Gar grinned whole-heartedly at this. Stone continued in his explanation, however, and as he did, a chill rippled down the boy's spine.

"Also, I wasn't quite expecting Miss Angela to pick up a kid like you. As you can see, her tastes are a bit...angstier than one would hope for. I mean, look at her daughter! Talk about an ice queen! And she only...well, anyway, I figured you'd be some emo skater from the hood, so that's why it didn't even cross my mind at first who you could have been." The cook looked a bit uncomfortable, as if he had revealed a bit too much information in that little rant. Whatever it was, the teenager decided to let it go.

"Huh. Well, I may not be a punk, but I do happen to be the Jokester King of Cali, Mr. Stone! So you've got some competition here in the greatness department. However, after tasting your wonderful meal tonight, I have to say that I've got quite a fight on my hands. Dunno if my pranks can compete with such heavenly food!" Gar added, beaming. Stone perked up considerably at this, and his face glowed with pride.

"Call me Vic. I have a feeling we're going to get along famously, Mr. Logan!" Vic boomed, extending a hand in greeting. Gar took it, returning the vigorous handshake despite feeling as if his arm was going to pop out of its socket.

"Call me Gar," he said amiably.

"Right then, Gar. Well, thanks for returning the dishes. Petey over here usually gets 'em," He nodded over at the small boy that had met with Gar in the hallway to the kitchen, who waved awkwardly before ducking his head and hopping down into the lounge area.

"Shy little fella, isn't he?" Gar asked, chuckling a little. Stone nodded his great head solemnly.

"Just showed up one day, tromping through the snow in a ragged little coat and socks. Probably ran off from some orphanage somewhere. The Missus couldn't stand not taking him in, so we got him a job here in the kitchens where it's warm, if nothing else." Sighing, the man turned back to Gar. A sad smile played across his lips for a moment before he suddenly got a strange look on his face. One massive nostril sniffed viciously at the air, and his eyes widened to the size of dinner plates.

"KATH-ER-INNE!!" he bellowed, spinning on his heel with the poise of a ballet dancer, despite his size, and tramping off in the direction of the ovens.

Gar stood back, bewildered, as a great rattling and clanging ensued from the general direction of the area Stone had disappeared to. A roar painted in the cook's masculine tones preceded the appearance of a great ball of black smoke that belched out from behind a row of cabinets, as did a terrified shriek that obviously did not erupt from Stone's massive gullet.

The boy stood back in confusion as stream after stream of cuss words dribbled from Stone's mouth, harmonizing with the ringing, crashing sound of pots and pans falling to the ground. Summoning up a few scraps of courage, he tiptoed over to the ruckus. What he found there was more than a little surprising. Stone was leaning over one of the gleaming black ovens, sweat pouring down his face as he tried to smother a fire that roared from the interior of the stove. It seemed to be originating from a pan that held a charred black...something that must have been edible at one point in time. Behind him cowered a tall, pretty redheaded girl with the largest green eyes Gar had ever seen. Those eyes were swimming with tears, and her lower lip trembled dangerously as Vic continued to beat at the flames and utter curse words worthy of the swarthiest of sailors.

"Uh...anything I can help with, Vic?" Gar asked, nervously shifting from side to side. He wasn't sure if he should just stay out of the way of the cook's anger or try and aid him in his mission.

"Da--Yeah, actually. Can you get that fire extinguisher from the wall over there?" Stone panted, stopping in his cursing long enough to utter those few sentences as he put all of his Herculean strength into putting out the fire.

Gar saluted, turning on his heel and rushing over to the opposite wall, where said red canister hung on a hook. He grabbed it and ran back over to the blaze, yelling out a warning as he did so.

"Stand back!" he cried, pulling the pin from the top of the can and grabbing the hose. Pointing it towards the fire, he squeezed the trigger, and instantly a spray of white erupted from the end of it, dousing the flames and coating the area in messy white powder. Vic hadn't jumped back quite quick enough and half of his face was suddenly painted white. Doffing his chef's hat, he wiped most of the substance off and threw an irritated glance at Gar.

"I didn't mean USE it, Gar. Woulda been fine if you had just handed it to me," he muttered.

"Sorry..." Gar blushed. He liked playing the hero sometimes, and his excitement had gotten the better of him.

"'S alright..." Vic said, ruffling the boy's hair. "The fire's out, ain't it?"

Gar grinned happily.

"Now...what about you, Katherine?" Stone asked, spinning on his heel and facing the redhead, who was timidly scooping up the fallen pots and pans and hanging them back up where they belonged. She cringed at the sound of her name and turned to him shamefacedly.

"I'm...I'm sorry, sir. I was just t-trying to make a little surprise snack in celebration of the new master's arrival. I didn't know that would happen, honest!" she whispered, trembling anxiously.

"I know you didn't, girl," Vic said, sighing. "You never do. I just wish you would tell someone before you try to cook, alright?"

"Y-yes, sir..." she mumbled.

"Oh! By the way, Gar, this is Katherine, one of my new cooks. Cook being applied in the lightest sense imaginable. Katherine, this is Gar, the new master," the head cook announced. Katherine's eyes widened, making them seem even larger than they already were, as she dropped into a low curtsy.

"M-my lord..." she squeaked, head lowered nearly to the ground in obesiance.

Gar stood back, appalled at her behavior. "Uh...hi?" he stuttered, feeling like a complete and total idiot. "You don't have to bow, ya know. I'm just some kid Angela picked up, not royalty or anything."

She straightened instantly, eyes shining with admiration. "Yes, my lord!"

"You can just call me Gar. Everyone else does," he said, chuckling a little. It wasn't like he didn't like this kind of attention, but it was a little awkward being called 'lord' like he was something special, especially by someone who seemed to be a bit older than him, and a lot more attractive.

Her face wrinkled in concentration. "G-Gar. I like it!" she exclaimed enthusiastically. "Thank you!!"

"You're welcome, I guess..." he mumbled, scratching his head in confusion. This really was a strange girl, albeit gorgeous.

The girl clasped her hands together and bowed slightly again, more out of habit than anything. "If you will excuse me, I must get to my other duties. It was pleasant to meet you, Gar!" Waving, she skipped off towards the couches.

The teenager turned back to Stone after she disappeared through a doorway. "That was odd," he said.

"Yeah...Katherine's a strange character, she is. She's only been here a few weeks, and I can't say cooking is one of her strengths. She means well, though, and that's all that matters. She's a good housekeeper too, and it's good to have a girl around to keep all these boys in line. She makes messes like this every so often, but we couldn't just send her out in the cold because of a little klutziness. She has nowhere else to go, really, being a transfer student from an Ireland culinary arts college. Sometimes I think it was a little joke on their part, sending her here because they wanted to get rid of a nuisance or something. I feel sorry for the girl sometimes. She has no family here, and she's having trouble adapting to America. It's so different where she's from, and she can't seem to get a grasp on the lack of formality in this country," Vic replied.

Glancing idly at his watch, Gar was shocked to learn that it was nearly ten o'clock. He was tired from his long trip that day and stifled a yawn, knowing that he should be getting to bed soon.

"Looks like you're tired, Gar," the head cook laughed. "Maybe you should head off to bed. I'll take over cleanup from here. You're going to have a big day tomorrow, and I wouldn't want you tuckered out because I kept you up too long."

"Good idea," the boy said. "Bye, Vic. Nice to meet you!"

"Nice to meet you too, little man," Stone chuckled, turning back to the whitewashed oven.

Gar traipsed out of the room, waving to the reclining cooks as he went. He crossed the huge dining room, where a fire still burned in the grate, and meandered down the long hallway to the staircase. His legs were trembling with fatigue by the time he had made his way to the top of the stairs, and he was grateful to finally find the door of his bedroom. He opened the door to find everything as he had left it, and kicked off his shoes as he staggered over to his plush, inviting bed. Not even bothering to change into his pajamas, he plopped down facefirst onto the comforter and instantly fell asleep.

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Well, there's Chapter 5 for y'all! Sorry it took so freaking long, but I had a lot going on in my life and didn't really have the time, drive, or energy to write anything for a while. Now that it's summer, though, I'll hopefully have enough free time to have to relieve my boredom by writing. I hope you liked the chapter, and I'll try to get another one up soon! Adios, amigos!!

Tsuki


	6. Would You Like A Cookie?

Yo, all!! I'm back with the sixth addition to my story, What Becomes of Snow?, and I couldn't be happier! I hope you all like this one, and as always please review! It makes me get the warm fuzzies inside when you do! But without further ado, I should start the chapter and stop ranting like a giddy little girl. Voila!

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Teen Titans, or any copyrighted works for that matter. Great. Now, if you will excuse me, I must go inhale a gallon of ice cream to ease my depression upon having to state that sad fact.

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Chapter 6: Would You Like a Cookie?

_I wanted you to know that I love the way you laugh_

_I want to hold you high and steal your pain away_

_I keep your photograph and I know it serves me well_

_I want to hold you high and steal your pain_

_Because I'm broken when I'm lonesome and I don't feel right when you're gone away_

_You've gone away_

_You don't feel me here anymore_

_**--"Broken" (Seether, featuring Amy Lee)**_

Gar awoke to bright, cold sunlight streaming in from his bedside window. Which was surprising to say the least, considering that he didn't _have _a bedside window. Cracking his eyes open and squinting into the source of the pestering brightness, he found himself staring down the barrel of a mega-powered flashlight. At the other end stood a pale figure, icy blue-gray eyes squinted in irritation.

"Would you please STOP it?" Rachel hissed, jabbing at the teenager's chest with the electric torch.

"I could say the same to you!" Gar grumbled, shoving the nose of the flashlight away from his sensitive eyes as he blinked, spots swimming in his vision. "What the hell is all this about?"

Rachel growled deep in her throat. "Only you, shouting your fool head off at three o' clock in the morning!" she said, swinging the beam of the flashlight into his face again. "SOME of us in this house might be trying to sleep, and seeing as my room is only a few down from yours, I get the full brunt of your antics!"

"Wh-what?" he asked, rubbing sleep from his eyes and sitting up in bed. "I was asleep! I wasn't saying anything!"

She snorted derisively, tossing her head in disdain. "Yeah, I know. Did anyone ever tell you you_ talk_ in your sleep? Loudly?"

"Oh," he replied dully. "Was I? Sorry. I haven't done that since I was, like, five. But yeah, I used to all the time. I'm sorry I woke you."

"Yeah, well, I just figured it would be good karma for me to come in here and wake you up in return. So we're even I guess. Good night. Or, rather, good morning," she added angrily, spinning on her heel and flouncing to the door. "Wake me up again and you're going to get more than light shoved in that pretty boy face of yours."

After she left, Gar flopped back down to his pillow with a sigh. No way was he going to be able to fall asleep again after all that ruckus. He might as well just get up.

Scooting his legs over the side of the mattress, he dropped to the floor with a soft _thump_. Shivering in the chill air, he rubbed his upper arms and shuffled across to his bathroom. After brushing his teeth and using the toilet, he got dressed in a pair of his favorite jeans and a comfortably baggy t-shirt. When he glanced at his reflection in the mirror, he found that there were bags under his eyes and his hair was spiked up in a messy bedhead style. It didn't look half as bad as one would think.

"Hmm...no t.v..." he muttered to himself thoughtfully. That was one downside to the luxurious mansion--he hadn't seen a single television in the place. How was he supposed to entertain himself, especially if he awoke this early? Huffing, he strode from his room in search of something to do.

Downstairs he found a large room that led off from the grand hallway he had gone down to get to dinner the previous day. Inside was an expensive array of couches and tea tables that seemed rather unused--he was clued into this fact by the thick layer of dust that lay over everything. When he rubbed a finger along one of the tables, it came back a deep, pasty gray. Nothing else of much interest was there, so he left the room and continued to explore the mansion.

On the other side of the stairwell was another, smaller hallway. There were doors along its length, much like the hallway that led to his bedroom, and he investigated them one by one. Most led to small parlors or closets, but one room in particular at the very end caught his interest. The door was different from the others, made of polished maple that was carved with sinister patterns and symbols. A low-frequency hum sounded from the other side, making Gar's hair stand up on end.

Shivering with excitement, he reached for the curved golden handle.

"STOP!" a voice barked out from behind him. Whirling in fright, his heart pounding a rapid tattoo in his chest, he saw Rachel striding towards him, her deep black nightgown flaring out behind her like a witch's cape.

"What did I do?" he wondered in a strained whisper, clutching at his chest to still his heart.

"That room if OFF LIMITS!" she thundered, placing herself between him and the door and crossing her arms over her chest. "Do I make myself clear? You're already causing more trouble than you're worth. Didn't your mother ever tell you not to stick your nose in where it doesn't belong?"

Gar furrowed his brows in anger. She was being totally unfair! It's not like he knew he wasn't allowed to explore _his own house_!

"Oh, wait," Rachel whispered harshly. "She didn't, did she? You were never old enough to know the woman."

At this, the boy stepped back in dismay. What a terrible thing, to bring up his mother's death for no reason! He was about to shove an angry retort in her face when Angela trailed sleepily down the hallway towards them, yawning with a delicate hand placed over her mouth.

"What is all this ruckus?" she wondered in her tinkly voice. It reminded Gar of silver bells being rung at Christmastime. "Rachel?"

"Nothing, mother," Rachel answered. "The boy was simply sleepwalking, and he almost got himself in a bit of a jam. I stopped him before he could get in trouble."

Angela wavered, eyes flickering towards the door her daughter was standing in front of.

"Oh," she said, placing a nervous little laugh at the end of her exclamation. "Well, thank you, dear, and off to bed with the two of you! We've got a big day tomorrow and you can't afford to lose any more sleep than you already have!" After this, she flounced off to return to her own bedroom, leaving the two teenagers alone again in the silent hallway.

"I saved your sorry butt, you know that?" Rachel muttered, shoving him towards the staircase.

"Would you like a cookie?" he growled, rolling his eyes in irritation.

"Ugh, you...! Now get back to bed, and NO more exploring!" she ordered.

Protesting feebly, Gar allowed himself to be steered towards his room. He was a little tired, now that he thought about it, and maybe it was a good idea to go back to bed. When he reached the doorway to his bedroom, he turned towards his foster sister.

"Um, thanks, I guess. Sorry I was such a nuisance," he apologized. "Good night."

Taken aback a bit, Rachel's eyes widened in a rare moment of surprise and she stepped back before murmuring a soft "Good night" and continuing on to her own room. Relieved, Gar entered his bedroom and sunk back down on his plush comforter, snuggling into the cool pillow and falling gently into sleep.

Well, here's chapter 6! I hope you liked it, despite all of its shortness, and I hope to see you again when I come back with another chapter! Thanks for reading, y'all!

Tsuki


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